Laura Meets Jeffrey (9 page)

12

Whip this

That first whipping turned on a new switch inside me. I had enjoyed power and domination games, and I could get into talking all kinds of strange shit. But that was just words and didn't leave welts. I had never had an urge to whip a woman.

I met a few guys who would boast about some chick who loved to be tied up and hurt. Once, at an orgy, a black pimp smacked around the white girl he brought who not only didn't just take it, she loved it and begged for more. It was unsettling. During a break while sharing a joint he gloated about other beatings he had inflicted on other women who wanted it. He was sinister, perverted in a way that I didn't admire. I remember thinking his behavior was a weakness, not a strength. Slapping asses and snapping directions were my limit.

For some reason sadism seemed less odious in women. An orgy buddy, Janet, an ex-Playboy bunny, worked as a dominatrix. She spent her days humiliating and whipping men. Usually they were rich and powerful men who, I guess, needed a vacation from being boss. I accepted it in her. In bed with me she was a submissive pussycat.

Once I met Janet in her lobby as she was coming home from work. Inside her apartment, she opened her coat to reveal her black-leather Mistress-Janet, Goddess-of-Pain, uniform.

“I didn't get a chance to change. What do you think of me looking like this?”

“You are startling to behold.” I convulsed back in a hammy theatrical cringe. These were the days before girls dressed like that to go to rock clubs, proms, or bar and bat mitzvahs.

She must have had on a dozen pieces of clothing, yet half her lovely Playboy Bunny body was exposed. Arm bands, wristlets, bra, corset, coarse fishnet stocking with garters, hip boots, crisscrossing bandoleer belts, choker necklace—all black leather—and metal studs everywhere, especially on her leather thong. “And what naughty things did you do today, little boy?” she grinned, taking what must have been an elephant whip out of her closet and posing like a postcard from Hell.

“Nothing that bad.”

I took the whip out of her hand and dragged her into the bedroom and playfully threw her onto the bed. We kissed. She slipped out of her weaponized panties and turned into the gentle, affectionate Janet I knew her to be. After a few minutes, she slipped back into her business persona, rolled me over on my belly and spanked me hard and true, each crack a testament to her professionalism. I refused to ask her to stop. I got into the rhythm of the pain, but I didn't enjoy it. It was more like hazing than sex.

She finally stopped and checked to see if I was hard. I wasn't. How could I be? I was in the middle of testing my pain threshold. I did get real hard soon after and had one of the best fucks ever with Janet. But I never gave it much thought or attached any special meaning to it. And never wanted to do it again.

Nor did I give much thought to that first whipping of Laura, at the time. I certainly have since.

Maybe it was my high testosterone?

Maybe it was atavistic caveman courtship?

Maybe excessive dominance medicated my insecurity?

Maybe submission medicated her insecurity?

Maybe I chose not to think about the implications, but the line between the conscious and subconscious is not a hard frontier with armed guards. I believe that thoughts and moods slide between the obvious and the unknown. I knew I was travelling somewhere more dangerous than merely naughty—some place where metaphysics meets the road­­—but being a successful sadist was never my goal. It never appeared in my catalog of fantasies of rock star, football hero, movie star, or even in my occasional daydream of being a pimp.

I wanted Laura. I needed her flesh, her taste. I was willing to pay the price. I was slave to her desires. My lust for her was stronger than my morality. I was willing to go to the dark side.

13

Laura moves in

Late June 1980

“This guy, this very, very rich man,” Laura confides, “had asked me if I would go to Greece with him. I was like, ‘Yeah, I'll definitely go to Greece with you.
'

“
The guy said, ‘Okay, look, I have to go to Florida, and then I'm gonna come back and I'll pick you up and then we'll head off to Greece.
'

“In between that time I met Jeffrey,” Laura continues, “and we just could not get out of bed. We couldn't get out of bed for days and days. We just stayed in bed. I blew off everything. Basically all we did was fuck.

“I wanted him to be in complete control. I wanted to have that feeling of him being in absolute complete control. And just completely giving myself over to him; maybe it was religious or something, it was similar in vibe.

“Like a religious fanatic.

“So the rich guy calls from Florida,” Laura resumes her story, “and I was in bed with Jeffrey and the rich guy was like, ‘Look, I'm coming back up. You're still definitely going to come to Greece with me?'

“And I said,
‘
Oh, yeah I'll go to Greece with you.'

“Jeffrey overheard this and he freaked out. When I got off the phone he said, ‘You're not going to Greece with some other guy. I'll take you to Greece. I don't want you to go with him. You can't go with him.'

“So the rich guy came back to New York and I wouldn't even see him,” Laura laughs, “Jeffrey wouldn't even let me out of the bed. I mean, it's not like he prevented me, I mean, I chose not to go, because the sex was so good! Yes, Jeffrey did own me at that point. His penis was the perfect size and the hardest I ever met. And it stayed hard and got hard again right away after he came. He owned me. His cock owned me. It was like I had given myself over to him. It was my choice to be owned by him.”

The night finally arrives when Laura brings her stuff from Mark's apartment and moves in with me. I help carry in her two suitcases and two duffle bags. Her entire wardrobe is tie-dyed, paisley, patched denim, or well worn cotton with a splash of working girl slut clothes and a few traditional skirts and blouses in case she has to disguise herself to make an escape or in case her parents visit. While she unpacks I ask how her day went.

“Great. Mark was upset but he understood,” Laura says. “I was straight with him and he's much too macho to blubber. I was very busy at work—five guys. And one of them gave me a $200 tip and all he really wanted to do was worship my body, eat me, and have me piss in his mouth. I never got one of those before. Almost all the guys at Eureka just want regular sex.

“It took a while,” Laura continues, “I had just pissed before he arrived so I had to drink gallons of water and then when I had to piss it was hard to do it in a guy's mouth. Yuck, so gross! But I wanted the $200. He drank it all and said it tasted like champagne. Real weird dude... a real average Joe-looking ‘suit.'

“Just before he left I had to piss again and he pulls this empty jam jar out of his coat and asks if I would fill it up for ‘later.' I figured why the fuck not? So I go back to the bathroom and I'm sitting there pissing in a jar and laughing my ass off. What a strange way to make money! Altogether I made $460. Not a bad day.”

“Did you come with any of them?” I ask.

“Most of them,” Laura confesses, “Not with the guy I pissed on. Or the guy I gave a blowjob. But I fingered myself into coming right after the blowjob left. Is it okay with you Jeffrey? Are you upset?”

“No, just curious.” Actually I do feel something. Not upset, but maybe a third of a twinge of jealousy. This is different than going to an orgy with a lover. At an orgy I'm there in the next room or on the next mattress and I'm also having a wild time. I am adjusted to having my woman fuck other men while I watch, but this isn't that.

“But Jeffrey, I thought of you all day,” Laura says. “Every trick that came in, I made believe you sent him in and that I was fucking him for you.”

I respond to her erotica with a dash of my jealousy and grab her and push her up against the wall. I look into her eyes, which at this moment seem more emerald than hazel or blue. It occurs to me that her eyes change color from one scene's lighting to the next. They say she adores me.

I have never been so adored. I like it. She moves her mouth to my ear and begs for me to hit her. I turn her around to face the wall. I slap her ass a dozen times.

“I want more.” Her voice is halfway between begging and commanding.

I grab my belt. I make her ass red.

I unzip my Levis and release my cock. It hones in and goes inside her. I hold her hands high against the wall and fuck her from behind. She counters every thrust, coming early, coming again, and then coming again when I erupt. We go to bed and nod off. We wake up and make love again for a long slow time with much more tenderness and fondling and rubbing. Sometime in the middle of the night we finally go to sleep.

The next morning after we untangle and make love sweetly, normally, Laura tells me again how every time a trick comes into the room at work she'll make believe I am her pimp sending them in. I add that I want her to come with every man and it is her job to think of me during orgasm. “Think of me while other men's dicks make you come,” I say.

Laura's eyes are wide and excited. “I'll do it for you. I swear,” she says.

Laura's sex drive is as strong as mine. We are kin. Even women who are as horny as me usually can't keep up. Laura also has stamina to match mine. She is my masturbation fantasy, a drop-dead gorgeous tall, thin long-haired girl who loves to fuck, has her own drugs and money, is way out at the edge of sexy and thinks I am God's gift to her vagina.

What's not to like?

We fuck at least four or five or six or more times every day. If we are together at home we're in bed fucking. If we are anywhere and there is a bed and privacy we're fucking. If we are anywhere and there's a bed and no privacy we throw people out of the room and fuck. Sometimes, if we're anywhere with a bed and we're with people, we fuck in front of them. Sometimes we fuck in express elevators quickly; sometimes we find closets and fuck. Sometimes we go up on a roof and fuck. Sometimes we pull the car over to a rest stop or just off the road and fuck.

Every day after work Laura recounts the day's eros-for-money adventures: The black U.N. diplomat who was very gentle, the old guy with the horse-sized schlong, the little bald guy who only wanted to suck her asshole and jerk off, the young, good-looking guy who paid her $250 to fuck her in the ass and then tried coming onto her for a date, the rich guy who gave her $200 just to squeeze his balls hard while he jerked off, the two “suits” who shared her and then gave her $200 cash and nearly $500 worth of their cocaine, the Japanese guy who spoke no English and had an amazingly rigid dick, the little American guy who had a small dick and was mean to her, and the many nondescript dudes that just came in, fucked, tipped, and left.

Each little vignette ends with Laura telling me how she came for me, how she performed for me, how she was my slave, how she repeated, “This is for you, Jeffrey,” in her head every time she came, how she even startled a john by saying it out loud once and how he asked afterwards, “Who the fuck is Jeffrey?”

Her description of each sexual encounter is exciting foreplay to me. I am the perfect boyfriend for a call girl. I have no jealousy. I approve of her having sex with other men.

Just thinking about “my whore” pleasuring other men makes me incredibly hard. Sometimes I get so excited during the day thinking about what she is doing, I jerk off imagining her in that little room with men using her. I don't consider the morals, I don't consider the ethics, I don't consider the psychic tax. I just love it, sick fuck that I am.

Men's horniness is just about the most interesting thing in the world to me. Starting with mine. I'm not sure where polymorphous perversity ends and homosexuality begins but while I have zero desire to be fucked by a man, watching men with their genetically engineered hard-ons use my woman as I did at 300 orgies or hearing about them use Laura as I do every day satisfies some compulsion.

I am fortunate that my obsession is within the quasi-socially acceptable and quasi-legal limits of perversion. One more crossed neuron someplace else and I could have been a shoe fetishist, scat worshiper or worse yet a pederast. It's just luck that I have my set of desires rather than some more hideous.

Every day Laura reveals more of her personality.

“The first time I ever remember having an orgasm with anyone,” Laura muses, “was with this actor/film director whose name I'd rather not mention. I didn't even know who he was. I'd never seen any of his movies. I was in this pub with friends and this guy started talking to me. My friends had to tell me who he was.

“I must have had an orgasm before knowing him,” Laura laughs, “because I had so much sex, but I didn't know it was orgasm. I just didn't know the name of it or how to define it. It was just this good swelling feeling. Not that he taught me how to define it, but he—he just made it so obvious, the orgasm he gave me was just so profound, so much bigger than anything before—and with an explosion. And so never-ending, ha, ha, ha! He had a nice cock, normal size­—a nice size—but it was his tongue that first got me off.

“He really knew how to eat pussy!” Laura gushes, “oh God yeah! It was amazing! He really, really did know how to make me come!

“And you know what his technique was? He was humming as he was going down on me, ha, ha, ha! There're so few men who know how to fucking have sex. It's really frustrating. When I talk to other women, they all say the amount of men who actually know how to have sex is fucking pathetic!

“What he did have that was special—besides knowing how to give exquisite head—was how to live, how to go for the joy, how to get joy out of life!"

When either Laura or I buy cut flowers, she knows each flower by name. She sings along with the radio, in tune. More impressive are her piano skills. She comes along with me when I visit a client and sits down at an upright piano in his office. A secretary turns off a radio and goes to lunch. Laura starts plinking on the piano until she is playing the song we just heard on the radio, note for note. I ask her if she has perfect pitch. She doesn't know what that is, nor does she know the names of the keys on the piano. She just knows how to figure out which notes follow which.

Sherry and I had great chemistry of the “You Jane, Me Tarzan” variety; Laura and I are Prince Charming and Cinderella after they slept together. We live together weekdays, but she spends weekends in New Hope with her husband, Sandy. One weekend while she is packing up to leave for New Hope, Laura says: “Please help me get out of my marriage. I want a divorce from Sandy. Don't be scared or anything, I'm not hot to marry again, I just don't want to be married to Sandy anymore. If I'm your whore I can't be his. Sandy and I own the house together so we'll have to work that part out, but I want out. O. U. T.”

She says she will tell Sandy about me and make some kind of financial deal with him. With Laura bringing in tons of money, Sandy has gotten lazy and spends most of his time with his girlfriend, Donna. He is even supporting her with Laura's hooking money. It annoys Laura. It pisses me off.

I ask Laura if Sandy would get physical. Does she want me to come up with her, take a motel room and be on standby? She says Sandy would never hurt her and that she wants to make the official announcement by herself. Before she leaves we make love and while cuddling she tells me again how much she loves the size of my penis and it's exactly the right size for her. Then she observes, “So many mean tricks are little guys with little dicks or big guys with big dicks. I think the little dicks are mad at the world for giving them a little dick and the big dicks think they're hot shit and are mad at you because they're paying for it.

“You know,” Laura continues, “All the other girls at Eureka say you are nice to them and they like fucking you. That makes me proud.”

“That's a good compliment.”

“Have you always been nice to prostitutes?” Laura asks.

I had never heard Laura use that word and there was something raw, honest and exciting about it.

“I am grateful for hookers,” I tell her. “As soon as I heard they existed I thanked God for making them. The idea that I can buy naked women and sex is heaven on earth to me. It thrilled me when I first heard about it. And it still does. I bless them all. Really.”

“I was quite naïve before I started working in the whorehouse,” Laura explains. “You see, before I started working there, I was talking to a really good friend of mine and I said, ‘Oh, we're in debt, and Sandy thinks I should go work in a whorehouse. He thinks I should go to a whorehouse and get our money back…'

“And my friend said, ‘You shouldn't say that out loud...'

“I said, ‘Why? Why not?'

“He said, ‘If you do it, just don't say anything about it…'

“I really didn't know how disrespected whores were, because I didn't disrespect them. I believed whores were noble creatures.”

Laura calls several times over the weekend and reports on the ongoing negotiations. Each call is a little oasis in a lonely weekend. I miss Laura. I stay in New York and work on some projects that are due Monday. Laura calls Sunday night to say she made a deal with Sandy. She's staying in New Hope that night, going to work early Monday morning and she'll tell me everything when she sees me after work at what she now calls “our apartment.” There are no moments in the day I don't think of her.